Obliquity
by Daanana
Summary: A modern day "retelling" of the legend of the City of Ys. Because Eleanor is not a saintly Princess, but neither is Jasper the Knight he pretends to be.
1. Eleanor

_This story is completely set in an alternative universe. King Simon is alive, Robert is still dead and will likely stay dead and the Balmoral Castle is conveniently located not in Scotland but near the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland. I love writing fantasy and weird shit, so this is me enjoying myself with some good ol' Len and Jasper. I'll switch between this one and Amative. Amative's first in line for some edits and a brand new chapter._

A modern day retelling of the legend of the City of Ys. Because Eleanor is not a saintly Princess, but neither is Jasper the Knight he pretends to be.

* * *

 **Obliquity**

 **Eleanor.**

King Simon resided in Blenheim Palace. It was close enough to London to arrive there within two hours in case of emergencies, but secluded enough he and his family could enjoy some privacy. When his oldest child, Robert Henstridge, tragically found his untimely demise in the wreckage of an airplane, however, the palace started to feel more like a prison and the privacy they had so coveted, put a strain on them all.

His Queen, Helena, urged him to put on a brave face for the people, because _the monarchy must not crumble_ , but as he tried to do so, be brave for the people, the walls of his own home were vastly dissolving into dust.

The Heir Apparent, and it felt weird calling his middle child this now that his firstborn had passed away, wasn't acting up per se, but Liam rarely stayed at the Palace, always moving from dorm to dorm, never staying more than a couple of nights. He seemed restless, in search of, and Simon knew it was because the Palace simply wasn't a home anymore. Not without Robert. And not _with_ Helena, always hammering on about appearances.

It wasn't the Heir the King was worried about, though.

His little one, the baby girl.

His Princess.

Eleanor.

Now she _was_ acting out. She had always been a wild child, _his wild child_ , and he loved her for it, but ever since Robert's death she had lost all her brakes. Spending nights away from home, drinking and snorting and swallowing all sorts of illegal substances Simon did not even want to know the names of. But she was _still_ his baby girl, the little one, his Princess.

Eleanor.

It's when there was yet another front page shot of her, smirking at the camera's all drugged up and exposing a lot of her Royal Beaver to the paparazzi that King Simon decided enough was enough.

When he entered her bedroom that night, seeing her motionless, stretched out on her belly, it almost broke his heart. Some coke remained on her bedside table, but he could also see the evidence of her drug abuse still lingering 'round her nostrils.

She used to be so beautiful, this pretty girl of his, still was. But he refused to see her like this any longer. She could spend nights away from home, she could dance until the early hours in some shady club, but she had to stop this. No more drugs.

He ran a hand lightly over her long, dark hair. Sighed.

'Dad?' And she rolled over, bumping against his knee, rubbing a hand over her face.

'What are you doing here?' she asked and he tried to shush her, but she pushed him away, narrowed her eyes at him.

'Get out of my room,' she said and her voice was hoarse. 'Go.'

But the King shook his head.

'Eleanor,' he started, 'this has to stop.'

'What has to stop?' she asked stubbornly and he wanted to grab her by the shoulders, shake her.

'Eleanor,' he said, louder this time. 'It's enough.'

He shifted, tried to make eye contact but she turned away from him.

'Robbie is not coming back, Eleanor,' he said softly. 'He isn't.'

He laid a hand on her arm and sighed.

'I know you miss him,' he continued. 'We all miss him. But he's not coming back.'

'Don't you think I know that,' she spat, and the venom in her voice took him by surprise. They were both quiet for a moment, only the sound of Eleanor's heavy breathing filling the room.

'He's never coming back,' she whispered eventually. 'But he's _everywhere_.'

So when the King asked her what she wanted, asked her what she needed to stay off the drugs, and she told him she wanted to move to Balmoral Castle, he wasted not a precious second. The great Balmoral castle, dug out of the silver cliffs of Moher, standing slightly above sea level, hidden, almost, inside the rock, was not fit to live in, but for the Princess it was made habitable within mere months.

They moved there, the King and his Queen, his Heir and the Princess, six months after Robert's passing and the King hoped his family finally could start to heal.

Fate, however, had different plans.

He saw her climbing to the top of the cliffs at night, at first alone. Eleanor spend her nights shouting at the sea, cursing the wild waves for taking her brother away. But after a while he would at times see two figures going up the cliff and disappear out of sight. Two people, not just her. Sometimes two would also come back down, other times only one. _Her._

He stopped watching her climb the cliff at night, whether alone or with company, when the first body washed upon shore.

And he wondered what had become of his little one, the baby girl, his Princess.

 _Eleanor_.


	2. Sacrifices

Sorry for the long wait. Work has been CRAZY! This story has a bit of a long intro, but Jasper will enter the fray at the end of the next chapter. So basically chapter #4 is when the party really starts. I hope you can stay with me and thank you all for still reading this and Amative. I **_have_** been neglecting you and I apologize.

* * *

 **Sacrifices.**

She hated the sea, at first. Because Robbie had crashed into sea. His body had been taken away by the sea. His life swallowed whole and her soul buried beneath it. That goddamned sea.

Blenheim Palace was confining her, though. Which perhaps was even worse than the sea.

Her mother wanted her to be on her best behaviour, pretend as if nothing was wrong, because 'smile for the camera's, dear, the entire nation is watching', but who cared about the _nation_? Her _brother_ was gone.

And every time she wondered the halls of the Palace, there was another memory accosting her, of him, of her, of them and then, up till the point where she could not take it anymore and just had to escape.

Drown.

Not in the sea, though. And she diligently starting cutting the coke, once a month, twice a week, daily, and for a while it helped. She was able to forget.

Stardust and wings. But she could only fly so far, before she would crash down to earth again.

When her father came to her room that night, she named the first thing that came to mind and it was drowning, and ease, and sea, that traitorous sea.

Balmoral Castle.

 _That_ castle, practically born from salt and cliffs, sea and tides, and the only place she wished to go. To get away from everything Robbie; to get nearer Robbie.

Balmoral Castle, and Eleanor was fucking scared.

The first night there she couldn't sleep. The sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs, against the castle. Against her bared soul and skin. It had kept her awake all through the night.

She had promised her father, the King, not to use any drugs and no amount of alcohol or weed available in the castle was enough to settle her mind.

The second night she went up the cliffs, demanded for the sea to be quiet. Because it had already taken _everything_ from her; why couldn't the ocean let her rest? There was no answer, but the continuous crashing of the waves against the cliffs, but as she tired of shouting, the deep tired of rolling into the rocks, and they simultaneously fell quiet in the dead of the night, both exhausted and worn out by the coming of low tide.

She descended the cliffs then and rolled into bed, and decided tomorrow she would do it again. Because it would not bring Robbie back and it might've been stupid, but she felt like the sea understood.

The fifth night was the first she didn't yell nor shout. She simply drank her wine, listened to the low tide and only went back down when high tide returned. Her father looked concerned, but said nothing about his daughter's unkempt appearance, the slight tang of salt clinging to her, that night during dinner and when Helena opened her mouth to comment, he silenced her with just a look.

The seventh night she started to tell the ocean of her brother.

 _My brother which you took and are never giving back. I know now._

And in the crashing of the waves or the absence of there was a pattern and what she had suspected the second night, became rooted in her mind the seventh, because the sea listened and the sea understood, and maybe it wasn't giving Robbie back, but there was so much else the deep could offer her, if only she took the time to listen.

Sometimes she thought of jumping off the cliff, letting the sea take her away as well, but she knew that wasn't what Robbie wanted and she wasn't willing yet to make that ultimate sacrifice.

'I need to go out,' she told James, her bodyguard, the eleventh night. 'I need to do something.'

He was a good man, father to a little girl he saw not often enough, and he could almost consider the Princess his own. He cared for her, more than some of her immediate family seemed to.

'I know a place,' he said, because he had already done his research, had scouted the area around Balmoral Castle and knew that even though there were not many big villages nor cities around, there were certain spots in the city of Galway where all the local youngsters gathered and perhaps company of a particular kind was simply what the Princess needed at the moment.

They drove perhaps an hour and a half in which Eleanor consumed two bottles of wine on her own. She had offered to pour James a glass as well, but he had declined graciously.

'Do you think he knew?' she asked, when they scoured the shore a bit too close and the boisterous sea could be seen breaking against the cliffs, several feet beneath them.

'Knew what, Your Highness?' James asked carefully.

'That he would die?'

He had no answer to her question and he didn't believe she expected him to.

He was glad when they reached the city, because her silence the rest of the way had been unnerving, and he could see a ghost of a smile on her face when she saw where he was taking her. She knew Halo, had heard of the award-winning club and had always wanted to go there, back in the UK.

She and Robbie had made plans to go there.

It was only fitting then, that she came here, with the ghost of her brother's demise and her own desolation watching over her shoulder.

The music was loud, the main room was dark, the bodies were hot and completely against protocol James went and got her a drink. Lagavulin, neat. She didn't question how he knew, Lord bless him, and _cheers to you, Robbie,_ because here she was, nursing _his_ favorite drink in the club they were supposed to explore together.

James took his spot again the far wall, standing a bit higher than the rest of the crowd, permitting him an unobstructed view of her.

She was already making her way into the crowd, pushing aside people, smiling when they recognized her, and soon enough she had gathered a following. They were dancing, jumping, yelling in each other's ears – there was this one guy putting his hands on her, kissing her neck, and his father instincts reeled, but as her bodyguard she stayed put, because she seemed to enjoy it and all he wanted was for her to roister – and drinking, always drinking.

That night she took him home, the boy that had been kissing her neck, and she made James take the long way back, never straying from the shore, driving through Murroogh, and Fanore, and Doolin and stopping at every single one of those seaside villages.

The sea was still roaring and perhaps it always did when the Princess was watching. When they arrived back at the castle it was nearly dawn and already low tide, but she still took him up the cliffs to watch the waves, even though they were barely there anymore.

She didn't know his name and he called her Lenny, but it didn't bother her as much as it should.

They sat and he spoke and she didn't listen, and when she tired of his talking she kissed him. He tasted like salt and a bit of the sea, so when he pushed of her clothes, she let him. His hands were feverish or perhaps it was her skin, but he got her wet and he kissed her tits, so again, she let him. His moans were almost in sync with the sea and when the first rays of sunlight fell on his face, she thought that perhaps he was beautiful. So she let him.

When he fucked her from behind, she stared into the rising sun and when a bird's silhouette dove down and cannoned into the sea, she pretended the shag was Robbie and smiled.

That morning she slept peacefully, after a very long time, and it wasn't because of the man in her bed.

The following night she told James they were to stay in. She had him get her two bottles from the cellar, one of whiskey, the other simply wine, and she went up the cliffs with two glasses in hand.

She filled the round whiskey glass to the brim, then pulled back her arm and with all the power she had, threw it off the cliff. It floated, for just a second, and then it plummeted down.

'This one's for you, Robbie,' she shouted and she hoped he could hear her.

The sea was being loud again, she couldn't hear the glass shatter, so she pretended it was still drifting in the sea, finding its way to Robbie.

'You are selfish,' she spoke against the explosive waves. 'You took my brother, but what have you given me?'

The water stilled. Unmoving and eerie and only the foam on the rocks indicated its gone by turbulence.

'You admit it, then,' Eleanor murmured. 'You _are_ selfish.'

'I think I saw Robbie yesterday,' she then said. 'A shag, barrelling down into the sea. Crossing the sun, looking for all means like a fallen star.'

She smiled then, as recognition crept upon her slowly. Awareness taking its time to come to full fruition and understanding. And perhaps she was crazy, but she most certainly was _not_.

'I brought you a man to look upon and you gave me my brother,' she said. Smiled and understood.

'A deal I can live with.'

Perhaps you are not as selfish as I thought.'

What little remained in the bottle of whiskey she poured down directly into the ocean. Holding the bottle upside down, she smirked.

'This one's for you, my selfish friend. This is for you.'

The next morning, she went to her father and asked if she was allowed to throw a little party. If he was surprised by her request, he didn't show it. Helena was delighted and gave her Rachel, _to help plan and such because you cannot tire yourself with menial tasks such as catering and music. You must give her the guest list and then focus on looking the part, dear daughter_.

She let her mother fuss about her, dress her in frilly dresses, only to practically rip them off her again, when they proved to be not to her liking. They decided on a short, open back black piece, with long sleeves and a high neckline, and her mother donned her in jewellery almost twice her weight.

Liam was next and he sat through it all quietly, because it had been a long time, such a long time, since Eleanor had ever wanted to do anything but smoke and snort and swallow.

Rachel made sure their friends were flown over, and she said _their_ but everyone knew Eleanor had no real friends, not anymore, so Rachel also invited some of the local Irish aristocracy, though she suspected most were just glorified farmers that somewhere in history had started to fancy themselves lords and knights.

Eleanor wouldn't care, she decided, and as long as Helena didn't know, she had nothing to find fault with.

So that night the local farmer's boy was announced as Lord Seamus O'Ahern the Second and while the boy looked thoroughly embarrassed, Helena seemed pleased and Eleanor liked him well enough, as they were inseparable the rest of the night.

'Are you enjoying yourself,' Liam asked her as he found her halfway through the night, looking out of the window at sea. Seamus was on the other side of the ballroom, getting them a drink.

She smiled at her brother and nodded.

'It's good,' she said. 'To be with people again.'

'Seamus seems nice,' Liam said. She grinned, nudged his shoulder with hers, and for a moment she seemed like the old Eleanor. But then she looked at the sea again and though her smile didn't drop, something changed. He wondered whether this move had been good for her, even though she had been the one to request it.

'He's nice, yes,' she agreed. 'Unfortunately.'

When they first kissed, on top of the cliffs, just before low tide, he tasted of honey and whiskey and promise, and she briefly wondered whether he was too sweet to belong to the sea. But his semen was just as salt as the ocean and when he spilled his seed into her mouth, she decided he would fit in just fine.

He was a good lover, an attentive one, and when he made her come for the second time that night, she felt bad for having to let him go. But only for a second.

'Do you know this is called the Leap of the Foals?' she asked as she got up and he nodded at her. Of course he knew. He was born here, probably knew every myth and legend surrounding the cliffs and the castle.

'Do you believe it?' she asked. 'That they were blinded by the sunlight and then fell to their deaths?'

He came to stand next to her, adjusting his balls inside of his boxers, looking pensive, and she had to laugh, because he looked ridiculous and endearing at the same time.

'I believe,' he started, 'that when you live in darkness for too long, you can lose sight of what is good for you and this could result in ruin, downfall. Perhaps even death.'

'I agree,' she said with a smile, but her tone was almost fatalistic, as she stood dangerously close to the edge of the cliff. He grabbed her arm, but she shrugged him off, laughing lightly.

'I have nothing to fear from the sea,' she grinned. 'She's my mistress or whatever you want to call it. She already has my brother; she cannot have me whole.'

He smirked, kissing her temple.

'If the sea is your mistress, then I am your handsome sailor,' he said. She stepped nearer the edge and mindlessly he followed her.

'That you are,' she whispered against his lips, turning them, so she was facing the sea and he with his back towards it.

She kissed him languidly, her tongue caressing his ever so slowly, and as he moaned she slipped a hand into his boxers. Already he was hard again and she almost regretted it. Almost.

But all sailors must always return to the sea. So she pushed.

She pushed.

He took a step back, his lips separating from hers, but he was already at the edge and there was nowhere else for him to go. Nowhere but down.

He cried out, high-pitched and shrill. Reached for her, but was already falling and too far gone. So far gone. He screamed all the way down, wailed, and then, suddenly, it stopped.

And she wondered if Robbie had screamed when he crashed down. Whether he had sounded the same. If this was what it had felt like for him. For her, had she been there. But then she determined that, no, he wouldn't have. Because Robbie's voice had been lower, much lower, thus so would've been his screams. He was a Prince. _The Prince_. Robbie would not have gone down like this. He would've kept his dignity.

It was fine, though, she decided.

'Here you go, Robbie,' she whispered as she climbed down the cliff again. 'You're not alone anymore.'

There it was again, the shag, cannoning down into the sea, just like a falling star. Just like Robbie.

She smiled.

She could always try again tomorrow.


	3. Masks

_I decided to just keep going. You guys deserve some updates. So here's the third chapter. With this chapter finished we made it to the current situation. Now we can really get started. I hope you'll "enjoy" it - though I feel weird using the word "enjoy", but I'm sure you'll know what I mean._

 _Thank you all for the reads and the reviews!_

* * *

 **Masks**

Seven nights passed and five men perished, before the first body washed upon shore. It wasn't Seamus and Eleanor was almost upset, because she had missed him the most. This man was bloated and grey and at first she did not even recognize him as one of hers. The scratches on his back were still there though, and the golden rings on his swollen fingers were eerily familiar.

She watched as James assisted the men in hauling up the body. They could've just waited for high tide to wash it away again, but one of the local fishermen assured that come low tide, it was likely the body would again be left on the rocks.

If they found the Princess' presence weird, none said anything. But there were the occasional glances and unheard whispers.

'How far from shore does a body need to be to make certain it never returns to shore again?' she asked and the old, unsuspecting recipient of her question was stunned into silence.

'What do you mean, Princess?' he asked, after he came over his initial shock.

Eleanor shrugged.

'I've heard you speak, trying to determine how he got into the water,' she said, 'and most likely he slipped and fell from the cliffs.'

The fisherman nodded.

'Is it fair to assume then, that when a body drops off the cliffs, it will always wash upon shore?'

'Not always,' another man, younger than the first interjected, 'but if you take into account the currents, it is the most likely outcome.'

'Currents?' she asked.

All the men nodded and for a moment the body was forgotten, because when the Princess asked a question, all wanted to answer.

'Most of them lead back to shore, Your Highness,' another added. 'Either towards Galway bay and if not there, the current will bring the body into Liscannor Bay.'

'All currents lead to shore then?' Eleanor said, but 'no' they said in unison, 'not all, Princess'.

'If you sail past Spanish Point,' the younger man from before spoke, 'there's a change in currents and instead of leading you back to shore, they lead you straight to the deep of the Atlantic Ocean.'

The others nodded their agreement.

'Spanish Point is dangerous,' one said.

'The current there unpredictable,' another added.

'Great waved for surfing, though,' a golden haired fellow said and the man next to him nodded fervently and stated, 'That's why the currents there are different.'

He wanted to elaborate further, but then James cleared his throat loudly and they all went back to work, hauling up that damned body, that the Princess had unwittingly put there.

In the course of three days, four more bodies washed upon shore. Three they managed to salvage, the fourth the sea took back when came high tide and when low tide returned, so not did the body. Seamus, however, was never seen, no matter how she missed him dearly.

Eleanor continued to have her parties, continued to take different men into her bed, but she wasn't ignorant nor witless, so she never took them up the cliff. Not once. They all returned home again.

But she didn't see the shag either, and for all its roaring and thrashing and tumult, it felt like the sea was angry at her.

She went up the cliff every night, but she didn't dare take anyone with her. Even though he hadn't said anything, she was certain James knew. And the villagers were starting to ask questions. None dared imply her involvement, but perhaps she had stirred suspicion with her questions the other day.

The parties continued, though. And she mingled with the people, smiled and danced, even kissed and some nights she fucked. But never up the cliff.

Even though she missed Robbie and she dreamt of Seamus almost every night.

But when it had been nearly two weeks since she had last seen the shag, and the sea had interrupted her dreams every single night, screaming for her to come up and bring down, and come up and push down, she decided enough was enough.

There was no party planned that night and after, she couldn't even remember where she had found the boy, but he was there and he had a cock so he would do. It was low tide and the waves were calm, when she pushed him down, unceremoniously, without regret, because she was almost delirious and she simply could not take it anymore.

When she came to her senses it had started raining, pouring, lashing down, and she threw off her clothes, the pristine white bathing robe, the tiara – because he, whoever he had been, had always wanted to fuck a Princess, so the least she could do was give him his fantasy -, her dark red undergarments. When she peered over the edge, she could see him, his body, bend in such weird ways which could only prologue death. She sucked in a breath and wished for it to rain harder, for the rain to wash his body away, because it was only low tide and the sea would not claim him yet.

 _I will keep you company,_ she promised him, _until the sea claims you,_ and she laughed because perhaps she was really going crazy or maybe this sea, this deep, this ocean, had simply poisoned her and made her its slave. _Her_ slave.

James found her on top of the cliff. She was still naked, lying on her belly and looking down the cliff. The rain was pouring down on her and the crashing of the waves was louder than ever before.

'What are you looking at?' he asked, and he had to repeat himself twice, before she had heard him. He had lowered himself to the wet ground, sat down next to her, trying to see what had her so captivated.

She had a hand on his wrist, smiling at him serenely.

'I don't mind,' she said. Trailed a finger up to his elbow. 'I don't mind looking upon his body and wait. Wait for high tide, for high tide to take him away.'

She rolled onto her back, facing him, her hair hanging over the edge of the cliff.

'If she doesn't like them, she simply gives them back come low tide.'

A laugh, so unrecognisable and separated from who she used to be. And he didn't see, didn't see the young man who had unfortunately become her next sacrifice, but there was no doubt in his mind that he was _there._ No doubt in his mind that she _had_ been watching him.

And he was scared, because he _knew_ the Princess wasn't crazy, except that maybe she was, but the Balmoral seas were what was truly disturbing.

'If she likes them,' she smiled, 'she takes them to Robbie. And then she shows _him_ to me, in the sunset, because she's my mistress and he her King.'

It was no surprise to them both when two days later the body was returned to shore.

'You see,' she told James sadly. 'She wants Seamus and no one else. Because Seamus looked the most like Robbie. But not too much, really.'

'I will give you Seamus,' he promised her, 'but you cannot throw him off a cliff, then.'

And she promised.

Three days later he had a mask made for her, black and silk and anonymous, and it was fashioned after Seamus' face. Every single one of her men wore it for her, gladly, even though they found it odd. Because Seamus was what the sea wanted and Seamus was who she missed, so it only seemed logical.

Soon enough the sea calmed down.

But not for long.

She went up the cliffs every day, duly, and sometimes she brought new men, other times she brought those she had already introduced to her mistress. All wore the mask and for a moment all seemed well.

After four nights she could hear the waves crashing against the cliffs at night, would still hear them when it was supposed to be low tide, and she dared not look out of her window, for fear of what she would see. Because had she ever, since moving to Balmoral Castle, been able to refuse the ocean anything?

After nine nights even her family started to notice and Helena complained of the salty air being bad for her hair and now _this fucking noise keeping me up all night,_ while Liam joked that the sea here did not sound _half as soothing as on Willow's nature cd's,_ and every single one of them, the King, the Queen Mother and Eleanor, had made fun of him still listening to CD's, and when he once again explained they were _Willow's,_ they had made fun at him for dating a girl who still listened to CD's.

It didn't change the fact the sea kept them all awake at night and for Eleanor it was even worse. No matter how many she brought up the cliffs, how many she made spill their seed, how many made her gasp with want, to the sea it was never enough because it, _she_ , wasn't permitted to keep them.

And every sunrise _she_ seemed to mock her, because the sky was filled with birds and the sea full of fish, but never did she see that shag diving down again. _Robert._

So slowly Eleanor's resolve crumbled and her promise faded, because her brother was what she wanted and her brother was what the sea would grant her.

James had learned her tells. The men she kept for herself she was unrestricted with. She kissed them, danced with them, and flaunted them to the other females at the party. This one was _hers_ and hers alone. James needn't worry, then. But the men she took up the cliff no one had seen her with. Those were the sacrifices.

He had watched her wander from man to man this night, staying with none too long. And he knew. Tonight she would take one up the cliff. And only she would climb down again.

 _You promised,_ he thought, but he also knew she was only doing what she thought was right. They hadn't seen a proper low tide in more than a week and the fishermen were keen to go out to open sea again.

And he could see it in the way she approached the man; she was searching for not a lover, but a victim. A sacrifice. There was this one man, otherworldly handsome, even James could admit this, but he was demure, blushed when the Princess touched him arm, and though he could see it in the way her eyes darkened with lust, she would not be taking him up the cliff. And most importantly, he was a blond. His locks were almost golden and never ever had he seen her take a golden boy on top of the cliffs, nor had he seen her take one into her bed. No matter how handsome he was.

She settled on a raven-haired, lanky lad, older than her by at least five years, but still boyishly attractive. And though she did not speak to him the rest of the night, James knew she had chosen him, because there was a bit of black cloth hanging from his back pocket and James had had it manufactured himself, so he immediately recognized the black mask he had given the Princess.

He cornered her on the balcony outside, shortly after, grabbed her by the arms and demanded to know what she was thinking.

 _Because she made a promise, a bloody promise._

'She needs a sacrifice,' she pleaded with him. 'And I need to see Robbie.'

'You cannot, Eleanor,' he said desperately. 'They will know. They will know it was you who killed all these men. Have you not heard the fishermen?'

But she pushed him away, offended, and he fell to his knees.

'I did not kill them, James,' she defended herself. 'I made an offer, a trade. I did not kill them.'

But there was so much defeat in her voice, that James knew she had already started to distrust her own lie.

'The mask,' he exclaimed desperately. 'Take them up the cliff, but don't push them off. Does it matter in which way she receives them?'

And was he going mad, referring to the sea as _she_ as well? Was he going mad?

'Let the mask suffocate them,' he said breathlessly. 'I will take care of the bodies. I will take them beyond Spanish Point to make sure they never return to shore.'

He looked at her hopefully.

'Please.'

And then she was on her knees as well, holding his hands in hers, because she could never, _never._

'I could never,' she said. 'I could never get you involved, James.'

'I want to get involved,' he said. 'I need to get involved. I promised your father I would keep you safe. And this is the only way I know how.'

 _And one day,_ he thought, _I will save you from that traitorous sea. But not now, not yet. Right now this is all I can offer you._

'James,' she said and he knew he had won. She kissed his hands, kissed his knuckles and his fingers and he lifted her up by her arms. Her eyes were red and her mascara smudged.

'Go to the toilet and make yourself presentable, Princess,' he whispered as he pulled her close in an embrace. 'Otherwise that raven-haired youth might run from you.'

He kissed the top her head. 'Everything is going to be all right.'

That night he took out a row boat and headed for Spanish Point. It was hard at first, the sea tumultuous, but she became calmer as he neared his destination. As if she knew what he was bringing her. The way back was smooth and he arrived back at the castle just before sunrise.

He was exhausted and his arms hurt, but felt strangely fulfilled. Promised himself to check on the Princess before retiring to his own rooms and made a mental note to search for a boat with a motor. In case these trips became an oft recurrence. Which he was certain they would.

He never saw the man standing on top of the cliff, the Princess' cliff, his gaze following him all the way to the castle, and remaining there, on the cliff, well after the sun had come up.

He never saw him and that was James' first mistake.


	4. Red

**Red.**

They called him the Red Knight. He was handsome, painfully so, and he had the women speaking about him soon enough. There was one story where he saved a girl from downing, down at Lahinch Beach, and another fisher's wife claimed she had seen him emerge from the Doolin Caves stark-naked, which made her believe he was nothing short of a young God. Dixie, the mayor's daughter, said he spent most of his nights at McGann's, just a short ride from the cliffs, and she and her best friends believed he rented a room above the pub. They weren't quite too sure, though, Dixie told everyone willing to listen quite sadly, because despite their best efforts, he had never invited either of them up. No one really knew where he came from, but all agreed they wanted to be where he went.

They called him the Red Knight and he drove a fiery, red Jaguar, but James had soon enough found out his name was simply Jasper Frost.

Eleanor let the syllables roll over her tongue and decided she liked it.

 _Jasper Frost._

She started venturing from the castle more often, seeking out this _Jasper Frost_ but for all intents he evaded her and she quickly lost interest. Because Eleanor had other men to entertain and only one she needed to please. Besides, the roaring of the sea never faded away and eventually the waves drowned out the sound of his name.

 _Jasper Frost, Jasper Frost, Jasper –_

Robbie, Robbie, dear brother.

But just when she had forgotten about him, he appeared into her life. Made a grand entrance through the wide open doors of her broken heart and ball room and everyone quieted, because this was the Red Knight, Jasper Frost, Jasper, _Jaspurr._

'Princess,' he murmured, bowing as he took her hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles. Liam eyed him, as did James, but they both considered him not a threat, this demure young man, who had all the girls' skirts in a twist and seemed the _perfect_ gentleman, not even kissing, but just lightly grazing the Royal skin.

 _Not a threat._

'So you're the infamous Jasper Frost,' Eleanor purred. She was pleased to see the faintest of a blush creep upon his cheeks. And oh, how she liked them shy.

She linked her arm through his, pulling him along through the crowd. He stuttered a bit when she introduced him to her friends, looked bewildered when she pressed against him on the dancefloor and oh, dear Lord, how she _loved_ her boys shy.

He let her lead him and she revelled in it, slipped a hand beneath his shirt, as they spoke with people they both barely knew nor would remember. He pressed a kiss to her nape and she grabbed his crotch through his pants. _He was big, so big, and yes –_

And his hand splayed over her stomach, held there by her own, and his sharp intake of breath when she grinded her ass against him.

She kissed him behind a marble statue, on the top floor balcony and against a tapestry. She fumbled with his zipper, almost broke a nail on the clasp of his jeans, but then her long fingers curled around his shaft – and he trembled, gasped – and teased downwards.

 _Stroking and teasing, rubbing and squeezing._

They were hardly hidden from view, but her fingers were nimble and her kisses possessed.

And he came in her hand, spilling his seed through her fingers, and it thrilled her – _thrilled_ her immensely – when he moaned her name into her mouth and she swallowed his cries.

He was quiet as he followed her – meek, mild, modest – and he shielded her from the howling wind as she took him outside and up the cliff.

A black mask over his face and the crashing waves, the crying wind, that feeling of drowning – _perfection._

But then he grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulled hard and pulled her close.

'Princess,' he purred in her ear and the dark promise in that lone word made the hairs on her arms stand up.

'I don't need your mask.'

His voice was a bloody sin and _fuck –_

He had his fingers wrapped around her neck, his thumb almost painfully digging into her throat. She swallowed and pressed her hard nipples against his chest, and if anything, she knew she was already embarrassingly wet.

'I have enough disguises of my own,' he whispered against her throat, his mouth over a pulsing vein.

He bit down sharply and she whimpered.

'I own you,' he murmured.

His other hand moved down, fingers digging into her ass, kneading, releasing, kneading, releasing, and her throbbing clit followed its rhythm. She sighed against his touch, fisted her hands into his hair and he didn't have to touch her anymore, because his presence alone got her undone.

She shuddered against his hand and his lips, his brash and cocksureness.

And how had she ever thought him shy?

She did not remember much, all haze and colours and _fuck_ –

She _did_ remember lying there, a shivering, sticky mess.

 _Aching_.

And later she would wonder why she let him go, with his swagger, his big mouth, and long fingers and – _oh Robbie, I'm so sorry._

She stayed up the cliff all night, until dawn and James came to collect her.

He did not come to her nor her parties afterwards even though she sent invites. She _did_ see him, though. At night. On top of the cliffs. He wasn't ever there when she went up, but she could see him, later on, from her bedroom balcony. And she _knew_ James never saw him, but not once did she stop to wonder why.

Perhaps they were all fools, the Princess, the Bodyguard and the Red Knight.

 **END OF ACT I.**


End file.
